Critical Space (20 page)

"I've got to pee, you think I need a diuretic? Can I have the key?"

I shouldn't have said "diuretic." It confused him.

"Give me a large of whatever is most like coffee and the key, please. Key first."

He nodded, checked the centerfold, who was not a natural blonde, and then retrieved the key. I took it and headed back to the bathroom, ignoring his shout for me to pay for the coffee first.

The bathroom was empty and the lights were on, and it was surprisingly spacious inside, almost ten by ten. The seat-cover dispenser was on the wall behind the toilet, and I reached through the opening and felt around until my fingertips hit the edge of something hard and cool. It took another two seconds to get a grip and pull it free, and I found that I was holding a box of Glory cigarettes.

Inside was a folded sheet of white paper. I glanced at my watch before reading it, saw that I had five seconds to spare.

The note, which looked like it had come from a laser printer somewhere, read:

You can have her back.

You must follow my instructions without deviation.

You must keep to the schedule.

You will proceed on foot north to 34th Street and turn west. At 7th Ave. you will turn north to West 35th. On the south side of the block between 7th and 8th you will find a 1999 model Lincoln Continental, navy blue, NY license H8X ND4, keyless entry code 443674. Further instructions are beneath the driver's seat.

It is now oh-six-ten hours.

You will be at the car at oh-six-thirty-six hours.

Make me happy.

I folded the note and shoved it into my pocket, dumping the pack of cigarettes in the trash. I returned the key to the cashier, ignored the cup of coffee that was waiting for me, and headed out to the street.

Bridgett's Porsche was idling, double-parked, just outside. Farther down the block I could see Dale's van. Natalie's Audi was nowhere in sight. Wherever it was, Moore sat behind the wheel.

I turned north and started up the street, walking quickly. Drama had ordered me practically across the island, and she'd ordered it on foot. Thirty minutes was enough to make the location, but there wasn't going to be time to window-shop. I'd have to hurry.

Corry came over the radio.
"Where?"

"She's sending me across town," I told my radio. "She's specified the route, and she's specified I do it on foot. Destination is West Thirty-fifth between Seventh and Eighth, there's a car there with further instructions. I'm supposed to cross on Thirty-fourth Street."

There was a pause, then Bridgett came on the line.
"That's Midtown South, she's sending you to MTS. Why in fuck's sake is she sending you to the busiest precinct in Manhattan?"

"She's trying to draw you guys out, identify my cover. If you try to keep pace with me you'll back up traffic westbound. If you try to get ahead of me, you'll be loitering in front of a police station, and that'll draw attention."

"Which qualifies as alerting the authorities, "
Moore said.
"We can pull off, let you walk it alone, or we can put people on the ground to cover you."

I was already at Thirty-third, crossing the street with the light and a cluster of pedestrians, a few of whom were trying to determine if I was talking to myself or to them. "Robert, I think getting out of the vehicles is an extraordinarily dangerous thing to do. At least in the cars you all have some protection. People start walking and she'll be able to pick them off at her leisure."

"You think she'll try to take us out? "

"It's a possibility."

"I do not like this, "
Bridgett said.
"She's trying to get you alone."

"Turning onto Thirty-fourth now," I said. "I'm crossing to the north side of the street."

"I've got you, "
Dale said.

"I'm going to loop around, "
Bridgett said.
"Try to get ahead of you. I'll stay away from MTS until you 're there."

"Confirmed," I said, and fell silent. The foot traffic on Thirty-fourth was getting thicker, and I fell into a clump of pedestrians crossing Lexington. At the light I did another eyeball check, saw that Natalie's Audi was waiting at the light ahead of me, Moore at the wheel, and that Dale was still following behind him. There were a lot of people on the street, men and women moving with the strident purpose of people who have been forced by the need of a living wage to rise early and spend their day in toil.

When I reached Herald Square, Moore tried to slow down to keep me in view, which was a mistake and caused traffic to go apeshit. It wasn't bad enough that Thirty-fourth was a major east-west thoroughfare, at Herald Square it was crossed on the north-south axis by not only the Avenue of the Americas, but also Broadway. Traffic there was always rotten, and by the time I reached Macy's, there was no doubt that, if Drama was watching, she'd made the Audi, which meant she'd pegged Moore. I got an earful of his curses before he gave it up and let Dale take over the tail.

By Seventh Avenue I was feeling the walk and beginning to perspire. The clouds had come together in a high and seamless cover. When I turned onto Thirty-fifth, my watch said it was six thirty-six in the morning.

The street was lousy with cops, either coming to work or leaving, or perhaps responding to some crisis. Cars were parked all along both sides, and the precinct itself was roughly in the middle of the block on the north side, a squat bunker on steroids. Sector cars were parked diagonally in front, and then, farther along in each direction, more vehicles in lines parallel to the curb. Just before the entrance, on the opposite side of the street, was the Lincoln Drama had specified.

"I'm at the car," I told my radio.

"Confirmed, "
Corry said, and immediately Moore and Bridgett echoed him.

The vehicle looked entirely in its element, complete with rust speckling its rear bumper and a dent in the front driver's-side panel. Looking through the window as I approached I saw discarded bags of fast food, empty cans of beer crushed on the floor mats. The license plate matched, and the registration sticker was current. On the dashboard there was even a precinct parking permit, a laminated eight-by-ten sheet of paper, lime green, with the NYPD crest on it and the words "Restricted Parking Plate" and beneath it, "Midtown South Precinct." The permit would expire at the end of the year.

I unlocked the car, thinking that if she wanted to blow me up, this was a hell of a place to pick to do it. But the car accepted the code without anything more dramatic than the sound of the lock releasing, and the door opened just fine. Before climbing in I gave the street another look, both sides, back and forth, and there was nothing that caught my eye, and apparently I wasn't worth looking at either. In front of the precinct, six or seven uniformed officers were drinking from paper cups and talking, and not one of them gave me any attention.

Beneath the driver's seat was a folded Triple-A map of Manhattan, with a paper clip holding it shut. I opened the map, and a transit card fell out, along with a slip of paper.

One fare on the card.

Subway stop at the corner of 7th Ave.

Number 9 South to the Ferry Terminal -- be in the second car.

It is now oh-six-thirty-eight hours.

You have 18 minutes.

Oh...

Open the glove compartment.

Like the last one, the note was typed.

I stared at it, then at the glove compartment, and the butterflies in my stomach went a little crazy for a second.

In the glove compartment was a cheap Motorola walkie-talkie, yellow, the kind marketed to suburban homeowners as a neat way to keep track of one another should someone get lost while working in the yard or walking their poodle. On a pink Post-it note stuck to its face was the command, TURN ME ON written in block capitals in black ink. There was a black knob at the top, by the antenna, and I twisted it, hearing the click, and then a short squelch of static. Then silence.

I kept it in my right hand as I got out of the car, making for Seventh Avenue. "She's sending me to the Ferry Terminal," I told my radio. "Subway."

"You go down there, we'll lose you, "
Corry said.
"Radios will be useless, so will the cell phone. I won't even be able to track you."

"You're not telling me anything I don't know."

"We'll split it up. Dale, Moore, and I will go the long route. Bridgett, can you make theferry?"

Dale broke in over Corry.
"Wait a minute. Did she tell you to get
on t
he ferry?"

"No."

"So she could be trying to split us up, send us out to Staten Island ahead of you, then make you double back. "

"It's possible." I was at the head of the stairs down to the station, and from below I could hear the grinding of wheels on metal growing, the sound of a train coming. "Guys, I've got to move. You're going to have to work this out yourselves. I'll radio as soon as I can."

"You damn well better, "
Bridgett said.

Moore was on the line as I started down the stairs, asking Dale the best route to the terminal, and then I heard static. The radios we used for business, the one on my belt running leads to my palm and ear, were UHF, broadcasting on a repeater system that could be received throughout the boroughs. Powerful though they were, they couldn't penetrate the Manhattan streets. The Motorola in my hand was another story. It used VHF, and although it wasn't very powerful, it worked on a point-to-point system, basically direct line of sight. Which meant that if Drama was planning on talking to me, she'd have to have a relatively unobstructed view of my position.

The transit card had enough on it for my fare, and I made it through the turnstiles and to the doors of the car just as they were closing. The train started moving before I was able to get a handhold on anything, and I nearly slammed into a classic punk, decked out in black leather with a spiked dog collar and a torn Sex Pistols T-shirt, all topped off with a purple Mohawk. He brought his shoulders up in defense and turned a glare on me, but it changed to curiosity when he saw my face.

"Do I know you?"

"All men
are
brothers," I said, and wedged myself into the corner at the end of the car. There were no open seats, and at the next stop more passengers came aboard, dressed for work downtown. I tried to catch as many faces as I could, but it was pointless. If Drama was in the car, I couldn't see her.

I put the radio to my ear and heard static, the weak signal. A couple people gave me looks, wondering what the hell I was doing. Most couldn't have cared less.

Then her voice, far away, saying my name, over and over again, almost singing, like she was on a playground somewhere, eight years old and taunting me from the swing set.

"...
Atticus Atticus Atticus are you listening we've only got a few seconds you're taking the ferry
John F. Kennedy
it leaves at oh-seven-hundred go to the second foredeck by the ladder don't be late don't be late Atticus Atticus
..."

Then more static, and then silence.

I switched the Motorola off. The broadcast had been weak, too weak to be from the train. I'd caught the train she'd specified, so the only thing I could think was that she had been standing on a platform, maybe at Fourteenth Street, broadcasting as I went past. Which meant she wouldn't be on the ferry, which meant she could be anywhere by the time I reached Staten Island. There was no way Moore or Dale or Corry or Bridgett was going to find her in time.

It hit me that I already felt tired, and I'd been at this for less than an hour.

It hit me that I had been doing a very good job of hiding my fear up until this point, and that I didn't want to lose that now.

There was no longer any doubt in my mind that Drama was trying to strip me of my protection, of my support. The message about taking the ferry clinched it, proved beyond doubt that she wanted to get me alone. This was worse than a fool's errand, and there was only one way that made it make sense, only one reason to jump me through all these hoops to get me alone, to keep Antonia alive.

Drama wanted a trade. My life for Antonia's.

I dumped the Motorola in the first trash can I found, then sprinted up the stairs out of the station, already trying to get someone to respond to my radio call. Three lines of automobiles stretched around the corner of the terminal, cars waiting for their turn to cross New York Harbor, and I stood and scanned the line, looking for any vehicle I could recognize.

"Somebody come in," I said. "I'm aboveground, I'm getting on the ferry, somebody acknowledge."

"I'm with you, already aboard. Second row, middle. Where are you?"
Bridgett's voice.

I was so relieved to hear her that for a moment I couldn't talk.

"Atticus?"

"I'm boarding. Supposed to go to the fore, second deck, and wait for instructions."

"Should I find you?"

I debated. Even if she could have reached the terminal before me, Drama wouldn't risk coming aboard, wouldn't risk trapping herself anyplace where there was no easy exit. But that didn't mean she couldn't have eyes present, someone or something to watch.

"No," I told Bridgett. "Keep your distance."

She hesitated before responding.
"Confirmed."

The ferry sounded its horn, and I followed the remaining stragglers as they rushed aboard. I kept talking to Bridgett as I followed the walkway, passing an enormous anchor crammed into a corner, to the stairs and then up to the second deck. Most of the benches were occupied, and I could see a clump of early-bird tourists gathered on the aft observation deck to get a look at Manhattan as we pulled away.

"Why am I not hearing the others?"

"They cut out about three minutes ago. Could be signal loss, could be the batteries went dead."

"You have your cell phone?"

"I do."

"Call Natalie, see if they've checked in."

"Will do."

I turned to the fore, exited through the double doors onto the observation deck. We'd already left the terminal and I was surprised I hadn't even felt us go into motion. Continuing forward, I could look over the wall at the water beneath us, the short waves slamming into the ferry. The wind off the water was surprisingly cold, and the clouds had gone high again. Although the sky made the water look green and gray, visibility across to Staten Island was clear. On the starboard side, I could see the Statue of Liberty, stoic and stern and glorious, and she looked more to me like a guardian at the gate than an usher to the shore.